4.25.2012

I have hoisted you up
on the washing machine, wielding
nail scissors like a baton,
conducting our sweet bedtime
symphony. First your fingers,
admonishing the evidence
of nail-biting, then ten
piggy toes, wee-wee all the way.

We hush for backyard peepers,
slink in the half-light
to catch the moon, cradled
on the mountain, just settling in
for the evening. Like us.
Tumbling up to bed, you beg
to be kneaded, your litany of bad
things unrealized for another night.

these are my words

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